


Wonderland

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, F/M, Fantasy, Infidelity, M/M, Sexual Content, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Harry’s not going to let Zayn leave the band, and he’s definitely not going to let Zayn leave because of him. Harry can’t. He won’t let this happen. Harry will do whatever it takes to guarantee this reality never comes to fruition."</p><p>Harry can time travel and he knows Zayn is going to leave the band. His future self thinks it might be inevitable. Harry wants to prove him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iksnilits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iksnilits/gifts).



> iksnilits, you provided such amazing prompts for me to choose from. I wish I could give you 50k, but hopefully what I've written will do. 
> 
> There is mentioned infidelity (Zayn is with Perrie when his and Harry's sexual relationship begins), but I hope you can overlook this when you are reading the story.
> 
> Thank you to my betas and to the Zarry Fic Exchange mod for hosting this once again. I'm not British and was unable to get this Britpicked, nor did I check the events here extensively against existing 1D timelines, so I'm sorry for any mistakes or inconsistencies.
> 
> Title from the Taylor Swift song of the same name.

“You can have it all. Just not all at once.”

\- Oprah Winfrey

 

 

**2013**

 

“Did you ever see this?” Zayn asks suddenly. 

Smoke curls about the room, swirling up toward the ceiling in languid patterns. Zayn is holding a joint between his fingers lazily, almost like it’s an afterthought. He’s naked, same as Harry, and they’re in bed together, resting shoulder to shoulder. Zayn looks a bit like something out of some indie film, the dark haired brooding antihero, but Harry knows better. He’s peering at Harry quite intensely, hazel eyes searing straight through him, almost like Zayn can see the erratic patterns of Harry’s thoughts. It’s always a little hard to tell with Zayn, to ascertain just what it is he’s actually thinking. Harry figures that’s probably one of his favorite things about him.

“See what?”

Zayn makes a strange aborted gesture between the two of them, but ends up putting the joint back between his lips and concentrating on that instead. His inhale is sudden and sharp. “You know what I mean, you tosser.”

Harry does, but he likes playing dumb. Likes hearing Zayn say nice things about him. He always has. The other boys saying he’d nailed a note is nothing like the thrill that goes through Harry’s body when Zayn grins at him across the stage, sly and secretive, and drawls out that Harry is sexy.

“No,” Harry murmurs just to be contrary, shaking his head and slinking his foot along Zayn’s calve. He bites down a smirk at Zayn’s tiny shiver, the way his eyes go dark and carnivorous. “I don’t think I know what you’re getting at.”

“Did you see _this_?” Zayn asks, stubbing his joint out and catching Harry’s hands where he’s started dragging fingers down the lean planes of Zayn’s stomach. “Did you see us, in bed together like this? Did you know?”

Harry shakes his head and hiccups a sigh when Zayn threads their fingers together. Zayn probably assumes he’s lying, but Harry hadn’t, not at all. His dad had warned him as much, that the most important people in his life might not make any appearances in his mind-jumps. Or that if they did, they’d be murky, hard to make out. Zayn had _always_ been there, though, right under Harry’s nose, center-stage in Harry’s thoughts, but Harry had never dreamed they could be together in this way. The inking affirmations onto each other way. The sharing space together way, Harry’s muscles tired and sore, his chest damp with sweat and littered with marks from Zayn’s mouth, teeth, and tongue. The unspoken promises to make this whole thing real somehow, someway.

There had always been something between the two of them. People remarked that they were polar opposites, but people didn't know shit about Harry, or about Zayn. They didn’t know how Harry still got migraines and had spells where snatches of the future knocked him flat on his arse. They didn’t know how Zayn sat at his side until he woke, how the pressure of Zayn’s fingers and the worry in his gaze sometimes felt like the only thing keeping Harry afloat in this strange, crazy, fantastic world they’d found themselves in. Nobody knew how Harry’s heart surged with the desire to pull Zayn in close, inhaling the product coating his hair. And they didn’t know how soft Zayn’s lips were when they finally kissed, or how Zayn actually whimpered the first time Harry buried his nose against the crease of skin between abdomen and thigh, looking up at Zayn with fire in his eyes and desire casting a fog over the racing arc of his thoughts.

Nobody knows about Zayn and Harry and it is awful and terrifying and beautiful. The roiling emotions make Harry put pen to paper, make him write frantically in his moleskin and leave notes for himself on his iPhone. _You say we're better off together in our bed_. Harry knows it’s true. He’s at his best when he can close his eyes and sink into Zayn’s side, the two of them wrapped up in a hotel bed or curled together at the back of the bus. This — whatever it is — is the stuff of dreams and nightmares. Harry will cling to it until he drowns.

“I didn’t see this,” Harry admits. He shifts closer to Zayn and indulges in the urge to touch, to drag the pad of his thumb down the long, warm column of Zayn’s neck. Against his thigh, Harry can feel the first pulse of Zayn’s growing interest, the heat of his lust, the urge to make the most of this rare hotel night. They’ve got shows and filming for the movie tomorrow, but tonight there’s nothing but room service and a leering promise etched into Zayn’s wide grin.

And so Harry catches Zayn’s mouth with his own, curling their tongues together. 

Harry can only bare a taste. He just wants to remember how plush and warm Zayn’s lips were — still are. He’s a masochist, he knows he is, but Harry doesn’t think he can handle more than a kiss. Soft, exploratory, one of the firsts so it’s sweet and still tinged with nothing but marvel and joy. 

So Harry kisses Zayn, kisses him as though things are still simple and good. And then he closes his eyes and lets himself fall forward through time and space back to Los Angeles. Back to 2015 where he belongs.

 

 

**2010**

 

The first time Harry does it, r _eally_ does it and sees a snatch of the future, he passes out. He wakes up ten minutes before his curfew with the tip of his trainers in the River Dane. He has absolutely no recollection of how he got there. His head hurts, there are questionable brown stains on the knees of his jeans, and his mouth tastes like the inside of a toilet bowl. He’s achy and everything feels dreadful, but Harry’s mood soars because he now knows that he needs to try out for the X Factor. _Immediately_.

It’s kind of a useful skill. The ability to time travel has been passed down on his dad’s side over the years. His family says it’s what’s always made the Styles lads so successful. Outsiders had always said so, too — that the Styles lot just had cheeky charm, winsome good looks, and uncanny fucking luck. People don’t know that their “luck” comes at a price. Headaches, fainting spells, and in Harry’s case, asthma that makes him leery to make the actual physical jump through time that his father undertakes so frequently.

For Harry, life is less _The Time Traveler’s Wife_ and more just random bursts of psychic ability accompanied by migraines and vomiting. When Harry meditates on simple life matters, he’s presented with different options he can take, with accompanying glimpses of the various outcomes. The snatches of potential aren’t always helpful, and so Harry has to rely on his instincts same as anyone else. But sometimes, when Harry feels particularly enterprising and has the time afterward to sit around being sick and sore, he makes a mind-jump, pushing his future self into unconsciousness for a few hours and walking around in his older self’s body. That’s how Harry learns that he will make it through boot camp and that it might be useful to talk to a few of the lads there — Niall Horan with his loud laughs and guitar, Louis Tomlinson who frequently doesn’t talk to anyone, Liam Payne who seems too focused for a sixteen-year-old, and Zain Malik, who watches everyone and everything around him with wide-eyed wonder, almost like he can’t believe he’s even there.

Harry tries to push farther, tries to see if he can force his mind into the exact date of 12 December 2010, but things always warp then, his head searing with pain as he slips into a restless slumber.

 

 

**2012**

 

Harry isn’t sure why he’s surprised by the amount of alcohol flowing at the Kid’s Choice Awards afterparty, but he is. There’s so much booze everywhere and he also has the sneaking suspicion that some of the attendees have been indulging in other extracurricular activities in the bathroom. It’s an industry party in the worst way, but Harry’s in a decent enough mood and came prepared to hobnob. 

Harry loses the other boys in the shuffle and downs two drinks one right after the other, both sugar sweet and pale pink. He’s nursing his third when Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez find him, swaying into his space and complimenting him on his performance earlier in the evening. They’re both absurdly pretty, even more attractive than they are on the telly, and they laugh with their whole body, too, like Harry is properly funny. Harry manages to bullshit his way through a conversation, chats about upcoming events and recording the boys’ next album, but thankfully Zayn comes over, too, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his iPhone in hand. Harry catches a glimmer of the lock screen — it’s a new image, one containing a snatch of blonde hair, red lips, and a million pound grin — before the screen fades to black. Harry feels something hot flush through his extremities, that same tension Harry feels whenever he thinks about Zayn too hard these days, and then he throws himself into the conversation with Selena and Taylor more energetically, his mood soaring when Taylor winks at him and saunters off to nibble on some hors d’oeuvres.

“Was Taylor Swift just flirting with you?” Zayn remarks, swiping his phone back on to check the time. Harry glances over, sees that the lock screen is indeed of Perrie Edwards smiling with a misshapen pastry in her hand, and also notes that it’s going on two in the morning. Their minders will probably be rounding them up soon. “America is unreal.” 

Harry hums, lifts a shoulder. “She’s only interested in me because she can’t have you,” Harry says, fiddling around with the straw of his sugary drink and looking long and sideways at Zayn. Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry and pulls a face.

“You need to stop reading tabloid trash,” Zayn retorts. “C’mon, Haz. You’re proper fit and a charming bloke. I’m sure she likes you for those reasons.”

Harry leans further into Zayn’s space, brushing their shoulders together. Harry inhales a whiff of Zayn’s cologne and watches as his eyes go strangely dark. It feels like a game but Harry knows it isn’t, at least not like the childish one Harry used to play with Louis in interviews. Things between Zayn and Harry have been strangely charged for a while, tinged with something that feels almost like sexual tension. This isn’t just banter. This is what Harry should’ve been feeling talking to Taylor Swift. 

Harry pushes against his own crescendoing attraction and instead bats his eyelashes, swinging his arms in front of him. Harry doesn’t know how to respond to Zayn anymore, not in any way that matters, and so he turns to charm and humor. It’s all he’s really good for anyway. “I’m proper fit, Zayn? Really? You think so?”

Harry guffaws when Zayn pushes him away and continues sucking down the rest of his drink. It’s everything Harry likes out of his alcohol — fruity, almost like candy, tasting more of juice than rum. Zayn is nursing a beer, something dark and manly to match his ridiculous cryptic persona that used to drive Harry mad. Harry finds himself watching the way condensation collects over Zayn’s fingers, and how Zayn’s lips catch on the rim of the beer bottle.

Harry suddenly feels something of a lurch in his brain, a swaying almost. Harry knocks into Zayn, the first tendril of pain flowing from the center of Harry’s forehead almost like someone had smashed an egg against it. Zayn brings an arm up to Harry’s shoulders, huffing long and put-upon. “Are you pissed? Had more of those fruity things than you let on?”

Harry opens his mouth to retort something, to tell Zayn that it isn’t _that_ , that it’s that time thing he’d mentioned in the band’s early days, but the lurch returns, stronger and more insistent. And then things go black.

 

When Harry opens his eyes, it’s to the shocking realization that he’s not properly conscious or awake. He’s In-Between, a space his father had mentioned to him only in passing and with a fair amount of hemming and hawing. “It’s a rare occurrence,” his dad had explained. “But sometimes a visiting self — past or future — will come, and they will only partially knock you out of the driver’s seat.” His father had paused, licked over his lips. “I can’t really explain it, Harry. You’ll know it if it ever happens.”

And Harry does recognize it. He’s here but not, at the KCA industry party but locked in the metaphorical backseat of his mind. It’s like he’s been placed in a glass room for safekeeping. He can see out but can’t interfere with the world outside of it.

The visiting self feels older, mildly wiser. When Harry concentrates, he can suss out a few details. The other Harry is something like twenty-one and he just _feels_ different. More reserved, almost guarded. Wounded, even. There’s a floundering pain to him, a deep sadness that Harry can’t even begin to understand. Yet Harry watches, helpless, as this visitor takes control over his body, over his motions.

“You all right?” Zayn asks. Harry’s almost forgotten that he was with Zayn when the first wave of discomfort hit. He’s got his hands on Harry’s face and his eyes are radiating concern. “Should I get you back to the hotel?”

The visitor nods, rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Z. Think I am pissed. It just hit me all at once.”

Zayn nods but keeps his arms around Harry’s shoulders. They find Paul who efficiently maneuvers them out of the party. The air outside is as warm as it is inside, but the visitor still seems to breathe easier once there’s a breeze caressing his face. Harry can still feel the visitor’s sadness, the crashing waves of it. It permeates his presence, seeps into every jerky, aborted movement. Harry makes out bits and snatches of the visitor’s introspection, the thoughts drifting past Harry’s glass prison like gusts of wind. 

_Need this_.

_Why?_

A sigh.

_Please_. _Oh, please, Zayn._

Zayn and Harry climb into the backseat of a van and are driven back to their hotel. The visitor leans his head on Zayn’s shoulder and Zayn winds his fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry catches another one of the visitor’s thoughts — _I forgot how good this used to feel_ — and Harry panics, his own thoughts drenched in anxiety and confusion.

Why was a twenty-one year old version of himself returning to revisit this moment? Why was he so upset? What about this car ride is so important? And how could Harry _ever_ forget the sensation of Zayn winding fingers through his hair?

But as soon as Harry thinks it, the visitor is there, standing in Harry’s glass prison with him. It’s the strangest sensation, the visitor both _here_ and _there_ , both in the driver’s seat and sat with Harry in the back. Harry didn’t think he could ever be capable of such control over his time traveling abilities, but three years is a long time to cultivate these skills.

“Don’t do it,” the visitor says. “The time will come when you think about it and Harry — just don’t do it.”

Harry’s so confused. He doesn’t have the slightest inkling of what the visitor is talking about. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t make the jump forward,” visiting-Harry says. “You’re in a good place now. And maybe if you don’t look, if you don’t peek beyond, you can keep things that way.”

“But — ”

“Curiosity really does kill the cat,” the visitor remarks. Sight doesn’t entirely exist here, in this weird in-between place in Harry’s mind, but Harry still thinks he catches the edge of a wry smirk on the visitor’s face. The visitor is still so sad, though. There isn’t really scent here, either, but the visitor almost stinks of melancholy. “I’m begging you. Maybe — maybe some things aren’t inevitable. Maybe we can find a way to change this course.”

Harry tries to respond, but the visitor disappears. 

Harry rouses, slow and heavy like he really is drunk, and now he’s laid back against a comfortable bed with Zayn’s fingers twisting mindless patterns against his scalp.

Harry leans back against the plush pillows and decides to put the incident entirely out of his mind.

 

—

 

The first time Zayn and Harry properly kiss, it’s 3 December, the night of their big Madison Square Garden show. There are cameras everywhere, and Harry’s been bouncing between his mum and his friends all night. There’s a buzz under his skin that he can’t quite itch, a restlessness he doesn’t know how to sate.

He can’t believe this is his life, now. When he had woken up, toes in the river, having mind-jumped to autumn 2010, he had never expected to break America, or perform on SNL, or sing with his boys during the Closing Ceremony of the bloody Olympics. The past year has been a whirlwind of shows and interviews and more shows and more interviews. He’s worked so hard he hardly has the time or energy to try and see beyond his current moment and the other boys never ask him to anymore. 

During rehearsal all five of them had looked at across the empty arena and sucked in a breath. It felt like they could never get bigger than this. Harry didn’t want to ever, ever forget this moment, this swooping feeling.

They’ve got an hour or so before showtime and Harry hasn’t seen Zayn in a while, but he isn’t particularly concerned about it. Zayn’s got family and friends here, as well as his girl, Perrie. She’s got bright purple hair and she’s wearing a nice black dress tonight. Harry still hasn’t worked out his feelings for her, even though she always says “Hello” to him and smiles big in a way Harry’s always appreciated in people. She unnerves Harry the way Dani and El never have. But then again, Harry’s never been on the pull with Liam and Lou, at least not like he has with Zayn. Harry’s never asked to share a girl in Australia with Liam and Lou either, and he’s never glanced across a hotel room to the image of Liam or Lou’s cock buried in a gorgeous blonde’s arse.

Harry decidedly isn’t thinking of either Zayn or Perrie when he makes his way out of the dressing room. They’d already gotten a few good shots in for the documentary they’re shooting with Morgan Spurlock, images of Harry, Louis, Liam and Niall looking broody and anxious, but sitting around just waiting to go onstage is driving Harry mad. He needs to go somewhere, do something.

Harry finds the toilets and pushes his way through, splashing water on his face. It’s been ages since he’s felt this level of nerves. Not since _Red or Black_ , when Harry’s traitorous mind had flashed a premonition in the middle of a performance — Harry forgetting all of the words to “What Makes You Beautiful” and One Direction subsequently careening into irrelevancy. It hadn’t come true, hadn’t been anywhere close to the reality that Harry confronted, but it did mean that Harry had a really rough go of it when he screwed up his solo on national telly.

Harry hardly even realizes Zayn’s in the loo too until he emerges from one of the stalls. His skin looks eerie and pallid underneath the tinny lighting and his neck is wet, but his smile is still big and genuine. The one he carries on his face so often for Harry, now. The brightness of it makes Harry feel flatfooted. 

Harry’s been confiding in Zayn more and more often now that he and Louis agreed to put some distance between themselves, at least publicly. Harry’s never been so grateful for Zayn’s attentiveness. Zayn’s always so thoughtful and knows the right things to say, the right things to do. He knows to come over to Harry before big performances and squeeze his shoulder. He knows to poke Harry’s dimple, to give him a thumb’s up and squeeze his hips after nailing a solo. Harry’s half in love with him, but not in the comforting platonic way Harry’s half in love with all of the lads.

Harry’s infatuation with Zayn grows day by day and Harry doesn’t know what to do with it. Everything seems so needlessly complicated and Harry hates himself for noticing how pink Zayn’s lips are. Zayn’s got such hazel eyes and his entire face lights up when he laughs. Harry’s been writing poems, love songs, and little ditties in his moleskin. Most of the time the inspiration comes without a name or face, but not always. Sometimes he writes about pink lips, hazel eyes, and glowing faces.

Harry doesn’t know how he’s supposed to cope with all of these gross, complicated feelings when Zayn’s got Perrie and Niall’s been telling Harry to keep things up with Taylor Swift now that she’s single again. It all feels like so much.

There’s so many thoughts colliding through Harry’s mind that he’s afraid he’ll somehow accidentally toss himself into a mind-jump. But then Zayn is right in front of him, tugging on Harry’s collar and smiling big and lopsided. 

“You all right?” Zayn asks. Even though he’s grinning, his eyes are worried little slits. Harry wants to bury his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck, inhale the smell of his shampoo and taste its tangy residue on his skin. “Need me to poke your cheek again?”

Harry guffaws, loud and sudden, and bites at his bottom lip. “I’m all right. But how about you?”

Zayn lifts a shoulder a little helplessly. He laughs, but he also cuffs his hand against the back of his neck and grimaces. “I — I’m okay. Nervous, like.”

Harry leans back against the sink and smirks. “You — Zayn Malik? Nervous? Never.”

“Big show, innit? The biggest we’ve ever done. Madison Square Garden, can you fucking believe it?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. No, I can’t.”

Zayn goes quiet and pensive. He bites his lip and looks up, his eyes so keen that Harry wonders whether he’s the only one in the band with a ridiculous, almost superhuman ability. 

“Did you ever see this?” Zayn asks. They all know — the lads. They all know that Harry sees things sometimes, that he’s perceptive. They think that’s it, though, just that he’s a little psychic or whatever. But sometimes Zayn looks at Harry with those incisive hazel eyes of his and Harry feels like Zayn _knows_. Knows all that Harry is truly capable of, all that Harry could really see, if he worked at it. If he tried. “Like — like during your premonitions, or whatever?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. Never.”

And then, just as quick, Zayn is in Harry’s space. He’s got a hand resting on the back of Harry’s head, the pressure feather light. He’s got a mischievous smirk on his face, the same one that he wears when he puts glue in their shoes or hides all of their clothes in the back of the bus. 

“What about this?” Zayn asks. His breath fans across Harry’s cheeks.

“What _about_ this?” Harry repeats. His heart is pounding straight through his chest. He’s sure Zayn can feel it, same as he’s sure that Zayn can see the flush that’s rushed to his cheeks and quickened his breath. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Zayn pulls away with a grin, leering at Harry with the knowledge that he’s called Harry’s bluff. But Harry doesn’t know what he’ll do if Zayn closes the gap between them, either. Harry doesn’t know which alternative he wants more, but he’s too afraid to make his mind fast forward. He kind of feels like leaving this one up to fate.

“I’m testing your psychic ability,” Zayn murmurs. “Wanted to know if you’d already known all about this.”

“I have no clue what you’re on about,” Harry says. Zayn must think he’s genuine because he nods his head, small, almost imperceptibly. It’s an affirmation kept mostly to himself.

And then Zayn kisses him. For real, not like the leaping pecks they’d given each other during the “Kiss You” music video filming last month. 

He tastes like spearmint. His lips are a little tacky, too. Like the lipgloss Harry saw Perrie pull out of her clutch and dab across her mouth before disappearing down the hallway in a wave of perfume and light laughter. 

Harry doesn’t even care. He just closes his eyes and tries not to swoon.

Zayn pulls away and licks his lips like he’s chasing Harry’s taste. His eyelashes are so long Harry swears he can feel them brush against his cheek. The urge to swoon makes a reappearance, but Harry manfully only whines. 

“Think I wanna make you my good luck charm,” Zayn admits. “Need one tonight, yeah?”

And then Zayn leans in again. This time, Harry meets him halfway.

 

 

**2013**

 

There are some things Harry absolutely refuses to think about. Harry’s always known that he avoids confrontation, that he ignores things that he should really just address head-on. Harry doesn't entirely know why he’s like this, but he accepts it about himself. This is just who he is.

So he doesn’t question it when he and Zayn begin snogging after shows and on rare shared hotel nights. He just goes with the flow, accepts that this is another post-show ritual to add to their collection. He swallows down Zayn’s sighs and doesn’t comment on how hard Zayn is against his thigh. He lets Zayn tug on his hair and ruts against Zayn like he’s still sixteen and doesn’t know any better. And he doesn’t ask any questions when Zayn steps out of the room to answer Perrie’s phone calls, nor does he provide any context when his and Taylor’s relationship spontaneously combusts. They don’t have that kind of relationship and Harry just tries to roll with it.

It barely works but Harry doesn’t know how to stop. He likes being Zayn’s good luck charm. He likes being the one Zayn wakes up to in the morning. He likes being the one Zayn’s wrapped around at night. It doesn’t feel much different from what they always did, except for how now Harry entertains daydreams of whisking Zayn away, of making this real. Harry’s a romantic, but it feels like nobody knows.

Sometimes Harry feels like his real feelings for Zayn are seeping through, that everyone can see the way his eyes linger and his fingers yearn to touch. Everything between them just seems so charged, so electric, and Harry can’t help that it spills over onstage. He’s never been the type to hold himself back, to not burst when he’s feeling something new, raw, and exciting, and Zayn’s the newest and most exciting thing he’s ever indulged in.

 

It’s the middle of summer and they’re touring the States to support _Take Me Home_. They’re in one of the middle towns that Harry can never quite remember the name of and Niall’s giving his speech. Harry’s hovering towards the back of the stage when he feels Zayn’s eyes on him. Harry turns toward him curiously, a grin firmly affixed to his face, and puts his hands out when Zayn chucks something to him. Harry reads the label and immediately tears the packet open, feeling something slinky and dangerous creep through his skin at the way Zayn’s still watching him.

Harry doesn’t even think about how it might be perceived, later. Everyone’s goading him on, chanting, “Get it on! Get it on!” And so he pulls the ridiculous candy g-string on over his jeans and makes a beeline towards Zayn, holding the string out so that Zayn can taste.

Zayn _does_ , is the thing, with the same lack of hesitation that Harry displayed when he’d walked over. Zayn’s eyelashes fan over his cheeks, dark as sin, and he tugs on the string, his lips wet and candy-slick. When he looks up at Harry, a nibble of sweet still in his mouth, his eyes tease of innocence.

 

18 June 2013 is also the first night they fuck. They’d gotten their hands on each other before, but Zayn always seemed to treat it like it was some sort of boys’ ritual, a meaningless activity lads undertake to take some stress off. 

This doesn’t feel like that. Zayn mumbles filth against Harry’s ear before he sinks to his knees, a callback to the sight he’d made earlier in the evening. His fingers are trembling when he gets his hands on Harry’s jeans, and there’s something young and tenuous in the way he looks up once he’s finally got Harry’s cock out, tongue poised for a taste.

A part of Harry wonders if this means their relationship is going to change now. He actually tries to push his mind, to jump forward just a little to see whether everything is going to be all right, but when he does, a quick, searing pain rushes through his cranium. It feels like he’s run into a brick wall, and maybe he has.

 

—

 

On 18 August 2013 Harry finds out that Zayn’s going to be leaving the band in two years. It’s the same day he finds out that Zayn and Perrie are engaged. 

It’s not a coincidence.

 

 

**2014**

 

Harry loves South America. He loves looking out at stadiums and seeing seas and seas of people singing his songs back to him. He loves going out for dinner and drinks after their shows. He loves taking private jets even if it’s shit for the environment and he loves flirting with girls with tanned skin and thick arses. But mostly he loves that South America is big enough that he can completely avoid Zayn without attracting any suspicion.

Things between the two of them have been strained. Or something. Harry doesn’t know how to describe their current situation. Harry can’t even _begin_ to know. But the weight of what he saw that fateful day last August is crushing him slowly, and Zayn is engaged these days anyway. Harry’s doing Zayn a favor. He’s doing them both a favor. He’s saving them.

Harry wants to avoid what he saw, the mind-jump that rattled him to his core, but he can’t. That mind-jump is nothing like his usual premonitions. That mind-jump — God. Harry hadn’t been able to sleep right for months, not with the knowledge that Zayn leaves in two years. That Zayn calls Harry, voice soft and resigned, and tells him that he’s done. That this is it.

Harry can’t lose Zayn. He can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_. But maybe he won’t lose Zayn if he pushes himself out of the equation.

Harry doesn’t see enough of the scene to know what precipitated Zayn’s exit. But Harry knows himself and he knows what his older self said after Zayn had already gone, so he can speculate. He knows that this could’ve been a warning from an alternate universe, one in which he pushes Zayn too far, asks all of those questions that have been eating Harry up inside over the past few months. He knows that Zayn leaving is his fault.

And so Harry does the last thing he wants to — he drifts away. Harry isn’t a martyr but he feels like one, forsaking the one relationship in his life that actually makes him want to stop and live in the moment, entrusting his trajectory entirely up to fate. He stops gripping Zayn’s wrist in between his fists when they fuck and eventually he stops pulling Zayn into his hotel room entirely. He doesn’t flirt with Zayn when they perform. He certainly doesn’t pick up things thrown on stage and saunter over to Zayn with them, a twinkle in his eyes and a stirring in his groin. He ignores Zayn during music video shoots. He pushes himself as far away from Zayn as he can, even though the tether drawing them together pulls and pulls at his heart and Zayn looks at him with eyes that are dark and hurt and uncomprehending.

And yet Zayn confronting him in Brazil still manages to be fucking surprising.

Harry hardly even realizes Zayn is there until he just _is_ , his fingers firm around Harry’s forearm. It’s not like Harry hasn’t seen Zayn at all, of course he has, but there’s seeing him across stage or watching him make his way into the other plane with Louis and Liam, back hunched and eyes downcast, and then there’s standing together in the middle of the hallway, Zayn’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed into slits. His grip is warm and sure and achingly familiar. Harry had noticed him briefly around the pool earlier, acid wash jeans slung low over narrow hips, the slight pallor of Zayn’s skin giving way to a warm, caramel tan. Harry nearly had to stop himself from drooling, instead downing glasses of caipirinha and attaching himself to Ben’s side as a distraction. Harry’s been indulging in a lot of distractions these days.

But now Zayn’s here. Shirtless, with sun-kissed skin and puckered lips that Harry had lost himself in over and over again last year, in those first-time experiences and a handful of body-jumps that he couldn’t stop himself from indulging in now that he has a hint of what might — but hopefully won’t —be coming. 

The edge of Zayn’s mouth twitches, the subtlest hint of a smile, but then he seems to remember himself, schools his expression into something removed and fairly cautious. It’s his default expression when he’s around Harry these days. He lets go of Harry and crosses his arms over his chest, but Harry still feels the phantom of his touch like a brand, like the first sting of pleasure-pain when the needle of a tattoo gun marks your skin.

“You all right?” Zayn asks. “Doing well?”

Harry shrugs. He can hardly sleep. His stomach can’t handle heavy meals anymore and he’s thinking about going on a cleanse. He’s drinking more than he really needs to. There was a period late last year where he was doing some stuff he really, really regrets. He wishes he was back in Los Angeles. He misses Zayn like a fucking hacked off limb even though Zayn’s still here. And Harry’s been jumping into the past and reliving some of his and Zayn’s brighter moments. First kisses, first fucks, first times Zayn’s looked at Harry like this could be more, like this could be it. But — “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right.”

“You busy later?” Zayn continues. He’s not properly looking at Harry. He’s staring at some point behind him and fussing with a towel he’s got draped over his shoulder. He smells like sunscreen and looks like a high fashion model. “Was wondering if you’d want to come up to my room later? Watch a movie or something? I — I’m missing my good luck charm, I think.” His tone keep lilting upward, like he’s hopeful and really means the words he’s saying. Like he really does miss Harry and crave his company. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Zayn so hesitant and unsure of himself. Not since Zayn first started texting Perrie, molding himself into someone she might like.

Harry feels something in his stomach lurch. At first he thinks it might be the edge of a time jump or some sort of interception from the past or future, but then he realizes it’s just nerves. It’s just him — 2014 Harry dealing with his 2014 problems. 

He wants to say “Yes.” He wants to spend as much time with Zayn as he can, soak in every beautiful thing about this very beautiful boy and fill Zayn up with reasons to stay in the band and to stay with Harry. But Harry is the reason why Zayn leaves. Harry knows this, can feel the certainty deep in his marrow. Harry, and the weird, childish relationship they had cultivated out on the road. Their relationship wasn’t real and Harry knows that now. Or, suspects. But he does know that if Zayn’s going to stay, if he’s going to remain in the band and not leave in 2015, then Harry needs to remove himself. Remove himself as the barrier to Zayn’s happiness. Because Zayn is never going to be happy with Harry. He can only ever be happy with Perrie.

“I can’t, I’ve made plans,” Harry says, trying to ignore how Zayn’s face goes dark and distant. Zayn’s still not properly looking at Harry, but now it’s painfully awkward. Zayn shuffles his feet and sighs, lifts a shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, ‘course you have,” Zayn mutters. He doesn’t sound bitter or angry. Just resigned. “Well, if you end up changing your mind, you know where you can find me. I’m only a few doors down, yeah?”

And Zayn turns, making his way back down the hallway. He looks so thin. Harry notices it so suddenly, so viscerally it makes his heart clench.

Harry doesn’t want to watch Zayn go, but he makes himself anyway. He’d had a version of himself visit his dreams yesterday, and the visitor had begged for Harry to change his mind, to change his course. Harry, feeling brave from his earlier consumption of cups of alcohol and a single puff from a cigarette, refused. Insisted that he knew what he was doing. 

For a long moment Harry wonders if he’s made a mistake. But he watches Zayn go and feels certainty swell in his veins. This is what’s best for both of them, this distance. Zayn shouldn’t turn to Harry in times of need. He needs to turn toward his girl or the other boys in the band. He needs to turn toward his friends outside of this crazy whirlwind, those loved ones who know Zayn when he’s at his best. So Harry watches Zayn go even though it hurts. He watches even though he wants to call Zayn back and say that he can still be Zayn’s lucky charm if he’s in need of one. Harry watches and commits Zayn’s dragging feet to memory. 

He might want to revisit this moment later, after all.

 

—

 

Sometimes when Harry thinks about the _Where We Are Tour_ schedule, he wants to vomit and go live in the past. Nobody should be on the road this much. No act should have this many fucking tour dates. Back to back to fucking back from April through to October with only small breaks in between legs. Harry doesn’t think he’s felt well-rested since 2009.

They’re all coping the way they know best. Harry spends as much time away from the boys — _away from Zayn_ — as he can. Niall finds girls and makes friends at every tour stop. Louis sparks up and makes frivolous purchases online. Liam brings Sophia out on the road whenever she can get away.

And Zayn — Harry isn’t entirely sure what Zayn does. 

What Harry is sure of is that Zayn’s certainly not particularly enjoying onstage.

Harry doesn’t really lurk online the same way the others do, but he still makes a point to know what the fans are talking about in very broad, general terms. He knows that people are worried about the next album and the health of the band going forward. He knows that fans are asking questions about Louis and Zayn, particularly after Louis leaked that video of them smoking up to the _Daily_ bleeding _Mail_. Louis swears that he intended for it to just be a bit of fun, something to fuck with their reputation among the tweens, but Louis isn’t the one who takes the brunt of the subsequent media blowback. 

Zayn is.

And Zayn’s handling it the way he always handles controversy — badly. He refuses to talk to any of the lads about the video and storms off whenever any of them bring it up. Instead, he smokes a shit ton. He skips out on writing and recording sessions and spends all of his free time Skyping Perrie or texting that producer he met at the Asian Awards in the spring. He does pitch a few songs for the new album, but the label systematically cuts all of them. Zayn pretends like it doesn’t bother him, that it doesn’t sting, but Harry knows Zayn, and he can see the way the rejection weighs his shoulders down. 

Zayn becomes progressively more and more distant, even more removed. He misses a few rehearsals for their upcoming promo blitz, claiming that he’s got a migraine or food poisoning or some one-day virus. It’s not like they rehearse often, so these missed appearances make a statement. Harry tries not to read too much into what the statement is.

Harry understands that things are always inherently harder for Zayn than the rest of them, because of Zayn’s personality and because of his race and religion, and so he tries his hardest not to judge. He knows the saying about people in glass houses throwing stones. But Harry _does_ worry. He worries and he stresses and gives himself headaches, unintentionally throwing himself into time jumps and always fucking looping back into the one projection he never, ever wants to see again. He tries to reach out to Zayn, sends him maudlin texts like “I can still be your good luck charm if you want,” but Zayn doesn’t respond. He never responds anymore.

Harry reminds himself that he _wanted_ this. That this distance is how he’ll keep Zayn from leaving. But the rejection still smarts like Harry had poured whiskey right over an open wound. And there’s a slinky voice in Harry’s ear more often than not that feels less like his conscience and more like a visitor. 

Harry’s not superstitious or particularly religious, but he does feel like there’s change in the air. If he and Zayn were still watching _Game of Thrones_ together he might look over and proclaim that winter is coming, but he and Zayn haven’t had a Netflix marathon in almost a year and winter comes every year. It doesn’t mean that things are going to go to hell. It doesn’t mean that Zayn’s going to leave.

He isn’t leaving. He isn’t.

 

— 

 

Harry’s never really cared for Florida the way Liam does, but he supposes there are certainly worse places to launch _Four_ than Orlando. It’s balmy, already something like 26°C, and they’re all on stage with Matt Lauer from _The Today Show_. Well — not all of them. Zayn’s not here. He says he’s got food poisoning again and isn’t well enough to leave London. Harry’s not sure whether he’s lying or not, but Harry also knows that Zayn wouldn’t miss their album launch unless it was for a good reason. 

"There's obviously a lot of concern, a lot of fans have been tweeting overnight,” Lauer’s saying. Harry’s only been half paying attention during the interview. Liam, as usual, has been designated as the one competent enough to field the harder-hitting questions, so Harry’s felt comfortable zoning out. Louis has recently gotten into the habit of openly mocking journalists, Niall’s go-to reaction is to laugh nervously whenever he’s pressed, and Harry’s — well. He’s Harry. Their handlers say he sometimes comes across as glib and sarcastic. “There’s been a lot of action on social media about him. Is it something more serious than just a minor illness? There have been rumors of substance abuse. What's going on?”

Harry had been thinking about what he was going to eat for dinner, but suddenly his eyes snap open. His first instinct is to look over at his team, betrayal making his blood run hot. How is it that Lauer was allowed to ask such an insulting question? Harry knows his team had sent _The Today Show_ a list of pre-approved questions, things they could ask and things they couldn’t. This should’ve never slipped through the cracks.

Harry doesn’t normally get upset when the press get bold. He knows that’s their job, to upset and unnerve, to force a story. It’s his job not to react, not to hand them their headlines on a silver platter. And Harry certainly isn’t vengeful. But Harry suddenly wants to interrogate members of their team. He wants to boycott this stupid American show and fire whoever is responsible for this glaring oversight.

The fans boo and Louis sneers at Lauer before bowing his head. His hand is shaking around his mic. Harry doesn’t have to get angry — his mind flashes an image, and Harry can see the way Louis will rage at their team later. People will be cowering in Louis’ presence for days.

Liam, true to form, only narrows his eyes slightly. “No, he's just got a stomach bug,” Liam insists. Everything always sounds so genuine coming from Liam’s mouth. “He's okay. He's just at home. He just needs to rest. He's okay.”

Lauer finally lets the damn thing go and moves onto the next question, but Harry looks around at the rest of the lads and is relieved to note that they all look as rattled as he feels.

 

—

 

When Zayn finally comes, he hugs all of them, even Harry. Zayn’s pale and is so thin Harry’s afraid he’s going to break him when he squeezes tight around his waist. He really doesn’t look well, honestly seems like he’s been poorly. Zayn manages a small smile for Harry, but it’s watery and nowhere close to the blinding grin he used to greet Harry with so frequently last year.

There’s a slotting in his brain, a wisp of pain and discomfort, and then there’s a visitor there in the back of his mind. Thankfully he doesn’t push Harry into the glass prison. He just sits and observes. 

The visitor feels older but familiar. Harry can’t see him, nor can he pinpoint where exactly the visitor is coming from, but he feels close, almost. Like the visitor hasn’t traveled far to meet Harry here.

“You can still change this,” the visitor whispers as Harry lets Zayn go and stands back to take him in again. Zayn looks soft with the way his hair curls about his face, but there’s an edge there, this same ragged energy that’s dogged him the entire year and made Harry hesitant to embrace him. Hesitant to come close and make himself vulnerable again.

There’s a moment where Zayn looks at Harry, the skin around his eyes and lips tightening. For not the first time, Harry gets the strange sensation that Zayn can see straight through him. 

The visitor doesn’t have feet, is nothing more than slinky whispers in Harry’s brain, really, but Harry still feels like he approaches closer. “You can keep him from leaving,” the visitor says. He sounds desperate, urgent. Harry doesn’t know why this visitor seems so damn familiar. “There’s still so much time.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Harry tells the visitor. “He’s not going _anywhere_. Trust me. I’ve got this.”

Zayn smirks like he’s got a secret and pokes Harry in the cheek. Harry jumps, startled by the sudden touch, and watches Zayn saunter off to go hug Louis again.

 

 

**2015**

 

For a few blissful months, it seems like everything’s great. Like everything’s wonderful. Like the hell of 2014 is finally bearing ripe fruit that Harry can enjoy.

Louis and Eleanor break up and Louis starts partying more, but Harry doesn’t think much of that. Shit happens, unfortunately. Relationships end. That’s just how things go.

Harry knows that Louis drags Zayn out sometimes, but Harry doesn’t think much about that either. Zayn and Louis are close, but not in the same way Harry and Zayn used to be. Zayn and Louis are thrashing energy and sometimes they bring out the worse in each other. Zayn and Harry — Harry doesn’t like to think about what they brought out in each other anymore. It doesn’t matter. 

Harry knows that Louis and Zayn bring girls back to the villa they’re renting and have raucous parties. Harry’s got his family with him so he doesn’t participate. Not that he would participate even if his family wasn’t around. He’s not been drinking as much and he doesn’t find the idea of picking up fans as intriguing as he used to. Harry misses having to work for someone’s affection. The last person he’d ever had to try with was Zayn and — and Harry doesn’t like to think about that either.

Zayn and one of the girls he finds end up taking pictures when they’re out at some club. From what Harry ascertains, they get sloppy drunk, post the pictures online, and then head back to the villa. This, like everything else Zayn and Louis have been doing, is not so much odd as fucking stupid. Ridiculously reckless. Their team provides them with NDA’s and bodyguards for a reason.

Harry doesn’t want to judge, but it’s just really, really fucking stupid.

Harry looks at the pictures on Twitter and wonders whether Zayn’s luck has finally run out now that he’s no longer got Harry to serve as his amulet.

 

Zayn’s panicking. He’s panicking and instead of going to smoke up with Louis or talk things out with Liam or ignore the situation entirely with Niall, Zayn makes his way over to Harry’s hotel room. He bangs the door down and he begs for Harry to let him in. And then when Harry goes against his better judgement and tells Zayn to make himself at home, Zayn continues to panic. He calls Perrie eight times back to back but she refuses to pick up or return his calls or reply to his texts. Over the next two hours he reaches out to her brother, her mum, the other Little Mix girls, and then he even fucking tweets, proclaiming his everlasting love for Perrie Edwards. Harry keeps a comment about the irony to himself — that Zayn is denying cheating on his fiancee from the comfort of his ex-fuck buddy’s bed — but Harry thinks the realization must dawn on Zayn, too, from the way his lips twist bitterly and how he jumps up suddenly like he’s been burned. 

Zayn bites at his lips and flicks his lighter on and off. He mutters, “I’ve got to go. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve got to go.” And then, just like that, he’s gone.

Next thing Harry knows, Zayn’s been signed off with exhaustion and he’s on a flight back to London.

 

—

 

“You know how this all ends,” the visitor says. Harry’s only done an actual physical time leap once before and it’d been a huge drain on him physically and emotionally, so he hadn’t been too sure he’d ever do it again. But this is certainly an older version of himself standing in the middle of his hotel room. The visitor seems weary. His hair is oily and lanky and he’s got spots on his chin. The visitor could’ve chosen to spruce himself up, to make himself look more beautiful since this is all basically make-believe anyway, but the visitor doesn’t seem to care. “He’s gone for good now.”

Harry gulps. They performed without Zayn again tonight but Zayn had called right before they’d gone onstage. He sounded sleepy but fine otherwise. Harry’s heart ached for him and he nearly cried when he was handed the phone and heard Zayn’s familiar murmuring voice. 

“He’s coming back. He said so. He just needs some more time to get his head right.”

The visitor shakes his head. “He’s not coming back, Harry.”

Harry purses his lips, tries not to snarl. “Of course he is. He promised. And he’s under contract.”

“You’re not stupid, Harry,” the visitor says. “He’s isn’t excited for the next album — he hasn’t even bothered writing for it. He’s been counting down the days to the hiatus. He’s missed things before, but this is different and you know it. You can feel it. He’s _done_. He’s not coming back. He has no reason to. But now you’ve got to be strong for the others.”

Harry stares.

“He’ll call again in a few days,” the visitor continues. His voice is kind but firm. Sure. Harry wants nothing more than to believe that the visitor is wrong, but why would Harry lie to himself? Why would he risk the pain and the potential injury of a physical time jump if he wasn’t certain about this? “Try to make it right. Tell him you did it all wrong. Apologize. _Beg_. Do whatever it takes. Maybe things will be different if you do. This is your last chance to see whether this is fucking inevitable or not.”

Harry scratches over his bicep, his fingernails digging into his Pink Floyd tattoo, the same one Zayn’s got etched into his skin. Harry doesn’t know what to say so he nods. The visitor musters up a smile and disappears.

 

— 

 

True to the visitor’s word, Zayn calls Harry on 24 March. It’s late and Harry’s exhausted. His head has been pounding all day and he hasn’t been able to keep any of his meals down. He can’t tell which thoughts are his own and which are from other versions of himself — visitors from the past and future. Things feel both wickedly familiar and completely bizarre. There’s a sense of foreboding that makes Harry want to hide in his bed all day.

Zayn’s name flashing across Harry’s phone screen actually feels like a bright spot. Something that makes the fog in his head lift and warmth spread through his muscles, relaxing him.

“‘Lo?” Harry says after he accepts the call and leans back against his pillows. 

Zayn exhales and it sounds like everything Harry’s been pushing away for the past year and a half. “Haz,” he says. “How you doing, babes?”

“Shit without you,” Harry answers. He picks at a loose thread in his bedspread. He can’t really remember the last time he’s been honest with Zayn. But this was how they used to talk all the time. Never hold anything back, except for how they really felt about falling into bed together. Never hold anything back, except for how much Harry wanted to push Zayn to make things real, to make Harry his. In words and deeds and in every way that matters. “Miss you so much, Zayn. All of us do.”

Zayn’s quiet for a long moment. Harry thinks he can hear the telly in the background, but then the volume’s turned down and it’s just Zayn breathing.

“You still there, Zayn?” Harry asks. 

“Yeah, I’m still here,” Zayn murmurs. “And I can hear you fine. Look, babe. I don’t know how else to say this but — but I don’t think I can keep up with this anymore.”

“Keep up with what?”

“This fucking machine, like.” Zayn huffs out a breath and Harry feels the first stirring of panic. If this was a movie, if Morgan Spurlock was still around filming their every bloody move, this scene would be supported by the ominous swelling of strings and horns. But as it is Harry can’t hear anything but Zayn’s ragged breathing and the rush of blood in his ears. “I don’t think I can keep throwing myself to the wolves like this. I — this isn’t what I signed up for and I’ve talked to my lawyer, like. You lads will be fine without me.”

“No,” Harry hisses. “No, no, no, no.”

This isn’t like how it went when Harry stumbled into the future. That had been a fast-forward. This is worse. This is worse, worse, so much worse. No, no, this isn’t supposed to be happening. This isn’t how it it’s supposed to go. Zayn’s supposed to stay, why is he leaving? Harry did what he needed to do. He pushed Zayn away. He didn’t let this be his fault. Why is Zayn leaving?

“No, Haz, just listen — ”

“What do you want me to do?” Harry interrupts. He’s holding onto his phone like a lifeline. He feels frantic and desperate. “Whatever you need us to do, we’ll do it. I’ll — shit. We can move shows around. We can redo the entire album. We can — we’ll take the break now if you want. Whatever you want, whatever you need — whatever it’ll take for you to stay. I’ll do it, Zayn.”

Zayn laughs but it’s cold and nothing’s funny. Nothing about this is funny, so why is Zayn laughing? “It’s already done, Haz. I’ve made up my mind, like. I — this is where I need to be. Home is where I need to be. There’s not enough time off in the world that’ll make me feel all right.”

“You can’t do this,” Harry gasps. He doesn’t even realize it, not in any real conscious way, but he’s crying. These big ugly sobs that would be embarrassing if Zayn wasn’t fucking doing this. If he wasn’t fucking leaving. “You can’t leave me, Zayn. I never wanted this. Please. Please don’t fucking leave me.”

“You’ve already left me!” Zayn snaps. “You weren’t there for me at all over the past fucking year. So don’t you dare — ”

“I did that because I thought that was what was best!” Harry feels like he’s grasping at straws. “You got engaged to Perrie and we were fucking around behind her back. What else was I supposed to do? Continue to enable your bloody affair?”

“You could’ve talked to me for one!”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair, rough and desperate. “I wanted to. Believe me, Zayn, I did. But I — I liked you so much. So much. More than I should’ve. And I couldn’t keep hurting myself, couldn’t bare the rejection, so I just. I just let myself drift away. It was for the best.”

“You liked me so much you pushed me away?” Zayn snarls. Harry can’t remember the last time Zayn sounded so cross with him. It’s possible that he’s never been this upset. It makes the surge feel even worse, that eerie sense of deja vu that only ever rang true when Harry experienced something more than once. It doesn’t feel right, but is this really the moment his 2013 self unwittingly witnessed the aftermath of? The moment that shook his world and molded Harry into the man he is today? “You concluded this was best for me without asking me? Who the fuck are you to make that decision?”

“Nobody,” Harry answers. “I’m nobody to you. And — and I knew that. So that’s why I made that choice.”

Zayn swears under his breath and Harry hears a thump. He wonders if Zayn’s hit a wall. “You should’ve talked to me,” Zayn says. “You should’ve told me what you were thinking. You should’ve done so many things and then we could’ve come to a conclusion _together_ , same as we went to bed _together_. You don’t throw your feelings in my face when I say I’m done as a ploy to get me to stay. That’s not fair and it’s not going to make me want to come back to this — or to come back to you.”

“Zayn, no, _please_.” Harry smears tears and snot over his face with the back of his hand. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and everything’s gone so wrong. “Please, Zayn. You can’t do this. You can’t make a decision like this rashly.”

“I already have and it wasn’t rash,” Zayn says. He sounds resigned and so, so very tired. “It’s been a long time coming and we both know it. I’ve got everything drawn up with the label and the team’s got a draft release statement ready. I just want my lawyer to look it all over again in the morning.”

Harry doesn’t scream, but it’s a near thing. Instead, he takes a deep breath. 

“I saw this one coming,” Harry chokes out. He can’t not say it. He can’t let everything fall apart without telling Zayn. “You would always ask when we were together and I — I couldn’t ever see anything else about the two of us, I never could no matter how hard I tried. You know that, Zayn. But this — I saw this day coming. I already lived part of it. And it feels even _worse_ the second time around.”

Zayn’s not as silent as he probably thinks he is. Harry can hear him inhale sharply. Harry can hear the way Zayn’s drumming his fingers on a hard surface, a tabletop or wall. Harry swears he can hear the wheels turning in Zayn’s brain, too. 

Zayn’s voice is barely more than a whisper when he finally responds. “I know, Haz.”

And then Harry hears nothing but the click of the line as Zayn hangs up.

 

—

 

Harry can’t sleep. It’s become a regular occurrence. And when he can’t sleep, he casts his mind back to happier times. It’s like turning on the telly, except the telly is his memory, and there’s only one program. The Zayn and Harry Show, starring twinkle in his eye Zayn Malik and stupid, self-sabotaging Harry Styles.

Harry runs through a catalogue of memories, selecting one almost at random. When he makes the time jump into his previous self’s mind, the sensation feels almost like sinking into bed on Christmas Eve, warm and full of expectation. Harry sometimes wonders if he does this too much. If he should be worried about living too much in the past.

He and Zayn are in a hotel room. Harry can’t remember where one, now. The entire _Take Me Home Tour_ is a blur of happiness and stolen kisses. It was Harry and Zayn against the world. And then Harry meddled in things he had no business seeking out and everything went to shit.

But this memory — this moment is intact and pure. It’s just him and Zayn, legs tied together underneath thin hotel covers. The room smells of Zayn’s joints, room service, and sex. There’s new ink on both of their skin and they’re young, wild, and invincible. Harry wanted to take a snapshot of the moment even then, even that first time. 

“Did you ever see this?” Zayn asks suddenly. 

Zayn’s got his joint pinched between his fingers, and he’s peering at Harry like he can see straight through him. Like he knows that this Harry is a visitor and not the one he had just been fucking. The other boys are always easy to fool when Harry makes these indulgences, but Zayn’s a perceptive shit. He never says anything, but Harry can feel it in his lips. Like he’s lingering and saying goodbye just as much as Harry is. Harry thinks Zayn might have a tinge of telepathy, but there’s no way he can be sure now.

But either way, whether Zayn knows or not, Harry always plays dumb. “See what?”

Zayn goes to open his mouth, but he ends up smoking more instead. There’s a playful gleam in his eyes, like he’s the time-traveling trickster, not Harry. “You know what I mean, you tosser.”

Harry does. Harry knows everything there is to know about Zayn. He knows how Zayn loves hard and fast, and how when he leaves it feels like they’ve both lost a limb. But still, this is a game, even if Harry knows that Zayn wins every single time. It’s inevitable. There is only one outcome. “No. I don’t think I know what you’re getting at.”

“Did you see _this_?” Zayn asks. Harry’s hands have wandered, trying to reacquaint himself with the familiar planes of Zayn’s stomach, the warmth of his cock, but Zayn catches his wrists with a knowing grin. “Did you see us in bed together like this? Did you know?”

Harry shakes his head, tries to force his lips from quivering. “I didn’t see this,” he whispers. “But I don’t think I would’ve changed anything even if I had.”

 

 

**2013**

 

It’s 18 August, the day before the _This Is Us_ premiere. Harry’s been buzzing with nerves as soon as he landed back in England, and the closer he gets to the event in Leicester Square, the antsier he becomes. 

It doesn’t help that there are new texts in the group WhatsApp that Harry still can’t bare to answer.

Perrie’s smile is wide and her hand looks dainty where it’s grasped in Zayn’s, a ring flashing on her left hand. Their families are all around them, everyone cheering and grinning big. Zayn doesn’t even need a caption to accompany the photo. The boys all know what this means.

Harry feels completely blindsided. He’d just had Zayn inside of him a little over a week ago back in Los Angeles. Everyone’s replied with their congratulations. Everyone but Harry. His head hurts. His heart hurts. He doesn’t want to say words he doesn’t mean. He wants to cry but he’s not going to shed tears over Zayn. He’s not going to shed tears when he knew what the score was going into this. He can time travel, for fuck’s sake. He should’ve seen this coming.

His head still hurts. Harry closes his eyes and sinks into the pain. It comforts him like an old lover. It’s the only constant in Harry’s life, the pain that accompanies his time jumps. So the pain strokes his hair and holds him close, asks Harry where he wants to go.

Harry doesn’t know. Harry just wants to get away from here. He doesn’t think anything can feel worse than this. 

The pain isn’t a person, but if it were, it would lift an eyebrow in challenge. _Wanna bet?_

When Harry opens his eyes, he’s in a hotel room. There’s noise all around him and he’s surrounded by handlers and members of their team. People are on their phones and typing away frantically on laptops. Harry sits up and lifts his arm but it seems heavier and completely unfamiliar. 

He’s bulkier. Muscular like Liam, almost, and there are new tattoos up and down his bicep.

But that’s not the only thing that’s heavy and unfamiliar.

He’s sitting on top of a bed surrounded by people and their noise. But the other boys are in the room with him.

Well — not all of them. Harry only counts four, including himself. Niall, Liam, and Louis. They’re all perched in different corners. Niall is chewing the side of his thumb. Liam’s glued to his phone, probably anxiously scrolling through Twitter. And Louis is sitting on the carpet. His knuckles are bruised and he’s got an ice pack held against them. People keep looking at him, their glances a mixture of worry and pity. Zayn’s nowhere to be seen.

The knowledge comes from the other Harry that he pushed aside. He’s the visitor for once, and the 2015 Harry is quiet and shell-shocked, sitting right outside of his little glass room. “Zayn’s not here because he’s _left_ ,” the other Harry supplies. “He’s gone and quit the band and it’s all my fault. He left because of me. It’s all my fault.”

The rest of the images come all in a rush. A late night phone call. A rushed statement. The shepherding into one room. Four boys clinging together like they’ve been cast out at sea without a raft. Louis lashing out, his anger snapping violently like a whip. 

“You can change this,” the other Harry whispers frantically. “You can keep him from leaving. He left because of me, because of my mistakes, but he can stay because of you. I’m sure of it.”

Harry slams back into his body in 2013 so hard he actually sees stars. He makes to stand, but a wave of vertigo hits him. So he sits back against his bed and lays his head against his pillows, breathing in and out. In, out.

 

They’ve got a film premiere tomorrow and Harry’s got unanswered texts waiting for him on his phone. Life isn’t going to stop moving just because Harry saw something terrifying. The time travel doesn’t actually work like that.

Slowly, hesitantly, Harry begins to formulate a plan. Once Harry stops feeling nauseated he will respond in the chat and congratulate Zayn on his engagement. Tomorrow, Harry will prepare himself for the premiere. Harry and Zayn have already been paired together for interviews. Harry knows he will cling to Zayn because that’s what he’s always done — stared at Zayn like he was the moon and the stars and galaxies his brain can’t even begin to comprehend. Harry will cling to Zayn and he will enjoy their day together, and then Harry will begin to pull back. It will be easy. Harry’s already hurting. He already wants to hide from Zayn while he licks his wounds and becomes strong again. 

“ _He left because of me, because of my mistakes, but he can stay because of you._ ”

It’s crystal clear what this means. Harry must’ve pushed Zayn too hard, demanded clarity, begged for a real relationship. Harry’s not going to let Zayn leave the band, and he’s definitely not going to let Zayn leave because of him. Harry can’t. He won’t let this happen. Harry will do whatever it takes to guarantee this reality never comes to fruition.

And if that means pushing Zayn away — so be it. Harry will make that sacrifice.

Harry rubs his temples and feels the edge of pain begin to recede. He picks up his phone and begins typing out a text.

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "Harry’s able to time travel and 2013!Harry wakes up in LA present-day. Zayn's gone, Louis is off the deep end, Liam and Niall are doing their thing and it's all too much for him to understand. He returns to 2013 with the knowledge that Zayn's leaving in two years and tries to stop it from happening, traveling back to 2015 to talk with current Harry from time to time."


End file.
